The woeful tale of Mary Winchester
by flutterby cupcake
Summary: After burning on the ceiling of her son's nursery, Mary Winchester is given the chance to watch her family with a host on angels. How will she handle seeing her family cope with their grief, unable to reassure them or alleviate their suffering? Can she have some influence over her sons futures? Trigger warning for domestic/mental abuse and neglect.
1. Chapter 1

I should never have woken up. I should have stayed asleep, unaware of what was transpiring in my house. But then I would never have been able to live with myself, leaving Sammy and Dean to their fates. I guess I wouldn't have known what was coming, and I wouldn't have known what was going on in Sammy's nursery. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

But I did wake up, instantly knowing that John had left the bed, or had never come up at all, and I couldn't sleep on without him. He'd been overworked at the garage, I knew that, and I didn't want to make it hard for him, but I worried. Of course I worried, about all of my boys. John staying out of the bed wasn't what had woken me, it was the static on Sammy's baby monitor, the sound of his distress underneath the interference. It was one of his first nights in his nursery, out of our room, and I wasn't coping without his sweet baby smell. It wasn't time for a night feed, but it could have been time for a diaper change.

I left most of the hallway lights off as I walked to the nursery, not wanting to confuse poor Sammy with a mix up in his routine. When I reached the nursery, it looked as though John was standing over Sammy, watching him even as he calmed down.

When I asked if Sammy was hungry, when he shushed me, it didn't strike me as odd, at all. John and I have - _had_ \- a great relationship, but it wasn't without its problems, and with the garage making more and more demands, we'd hit a bad patch. I had acquiesced because I didn't want to end up fighting in Sammy's nursery, waking up Dean who had already taken three stories, one rendition of _Hey, Jude_ and fifteen minutes of 'hugging' time to fall asleep. I was tired too. I was completely off my game.

So much so that I didn't question it when the one light in the hallway we did have on began to flicker. A bad fuse, I thought, or a failing bulb maybe. My father would be so ashamed that I didn't instantly think of the Supernatural. I had worked so hard to keep everything out of my little family, it wasn't something I had wanted to question. And it had been so long since I had encountered something supernatural, why would I have questioned it? I should have known, you don't get to just opt out of being a hunter.

I went downstairs after hearing a noise, and saw the television on, with John asleep on the lay-Z-boy. It took me far too long to realise that John couldn't be in two places at once, that if I could make out the familiar contours of his face as he slept on that chair then it couldn't possibly have been him in the nursery with Sammy. After all, I hadn't looked properly at the figure in the nursery, I'd just assumed … I ran back to Sammy, hating myself for not thinking things through sooner, for not assuming the worst right away. I felt sick to my stomach, wondering what this … this _thing_ could possibly want with my baby. He was six months old! He was concerned with eating solids and trying to sit up and talk just like Dean could, he didn't have to worry about the things that have plagued my entire life.

I called for him as I ran up the stairs, along the hallway. I was so out of practice with running, it felt like I was hardly moving at all, like with every second passing the hallway stretched itself out. Was this person, this thing, this apparition, were they still with Sammy? Or had they finished with him and moved onto Dean? I didn't want either of my beautiful boys hurt.

I finally reached the nursery, feeling short of breath, and saw the figure still there. He turned, and there was a golden sheen across his eyes, just for a moment. But it was long enough for me to remember exactly where I'd seen him before, sort of. Maybe I didn't recognise the meat suit, but I knew this was the creature that had murdered my parents, the one who had nearly snatched my John away. The one who said I could have John back in exchange for something. Was this it? Was it trading John for Sammy? That wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all. How could you possibly pick between the man you love with every fibre of your being and the tiny, defenceless, innocent baby that you made together? It was a choice I shouldn't have to make. The one silver lining I could see in that moment, was that at least Dean wasn't involved, that one of my boys was definitely safe. Maybe there was something in what I said every night as I tucked him in. Maybe angels truly were watching over my Dean. If only the same could be said for little Sammy.

"It's you." That was all I could think of to say to the thing standing over my baby boy, before I went on attack mode, trying to get to the one precious thing in the room. I hadn't reckoned on the demon's power. He pinned me to the wall and dragged me up it before a pain unlike any I'd felt before ripped its way across my abdomen. I couldn't help but scream from the pain of it, though I didn't want Sammy to worry. I was helpless against a demon, pinned against the ceiling, my stomach stinging, and all I could think of was how this was affecting my beautiful little baby. But Sammy seemed okay. He could see me, immobile and unable to sleep, pinned to the ceiling, and he smiled that adorable, innocent little smile as he realised it was me.

I could hear John as my scream began to fade, calling my name tersely before his feet pounded the stairs. I wanted to call back, to tell him to protect the boys, to apologise for dragging them all into the hell that was my life. I watched, completely helplessly, as he crossed the room to Sammy and smiled down at him, making sure he was okay, almost as though he could hear my silent pleas. And then he touched something on the pillow, and I realised that the pain in my abdomen was a deep gouge, which was dripping blood right by poor Sammy's head. Was this going to scar our baby for life? He looked up and saw me, and there was nothing I could do to stop what happened next. I wanted to tell him to run, take the boys and save them, bring them up safely.

But there was this overwhelming heat all of a sudden, and John fell down, yelling. The heat consumed me, and I could see flames licking out all around me. Sammy began to cry, and John got up, grabbing Sammy, finally acting on my unspoken dying wish. I could hear little Dean in the hallway, and I prayed John would get them both out, and leave me to my fate. If I ended up in Hell, I was searching for that bastard demon and making him undo whatever he did to my precious baby.

But then I heard it, John demanding that Dean take Sam outside. Was John not going to run too? Was he going to make our boys orphans so young, just so we could be together? Who would raise them? My parents were dead, his father had run away, and his mother was senile.

The flames were overwhelming my vision, but I could barely feel them anymore. I could barely feel anything. I could hear John calling my name in the distance, but the flames had taken over.

And then John was gone, and I was lost in the flames, though I could feel myself moving. I couldn't say if it was up or down, left or right, into the searing heat or away from it. I only knew the movement, and the flames, for what felt like forever.

Then suddenly, I was in a barren world, with little defining features. If I were to describe it, I would have said I was in the middle of a cloud, though I stood on solid ground. It was unformed and a dull grey colour. There was a cluster of people just in front of me, all stood around a gaping chasm in the floor, looking down without any comment.

"Hello?" I called tentatively. A woman beside the chasm looked up at me, her face expressionless, her complexion pasty and sickly under her vivid red hair.

"What are you doing here, human? Your soul should be further along."

I didn't understand. And this woman looked so familiar! Had we met before in another life? The thickset man beside her looked up as well, glancing at me before looking at the redhead.

"We are watchers, Anna, are we not? Maybe she needs to be watching also. This does involve her family."

A few of the crowd laughed, and the silent man on the other side of Anna stepped aside, looking at me with kindly eyes.

"Come, watch. They're clearing up the wreckage of your house now."

I walked forward as though I were in a dream, and stood beside the kinder man, whose focus was once more on the chasm. I looked down and gasped, because we were right outside my house. I could have reached over and touched John. The kinder man touched my wrist gently, as though he knew what I was thinking.

"We only watch. That is our duty."

"What are you?" I whispered, my eyes glued on my family, on John holding our boys and kissing the top of Dean's head as he sobbed into his hair, Sammy sleeping through it all. Even as the fire fighters won against the flames and my family huddled together on John's prized Impala. The kinder man took his time to answer.

"We are part of the Heavenly host, the garrison charged with watching over humans."

I suppressed a gasp. What I had always told Dean, was it true? Was it - could it be true? Angels were watching over him. They were watching over all of them. It felt like a small blessing after my death. I felt overwhelmed by my company then, I knew what it meant that I was allowed to be here with them, watching over my family. I bowed my head and watched, grateful at least for the kindly angel who stood next to me with the dark hair, bright blue eyes, and cloak wrapped around himself. There was something comforting in him, and I found myself stepping closer, even as my eyes were fixed on the chasm.

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**I wasn't going to upload this straight away, I wanted more chapters written, but I'm way too impatient for that, it turns out. I hope you like it, it's kind of nice not to do a Destiel story for once. Though of course, I love my ship :D but rest assured, this story will not be intentionally Destiel. This is all about Mary Winchester.**


	2. Chapter 2

Watching John, Dean and Sam with the angels was bittersweet. I couldn't get enough of seeing them, I never wanted to tear my eyes away. But watching them go through everything cut so deeply that I could hardly bear to watch.

John hadn't let go of our boys since he'd grouped them onto the car, and they had sat there for at least an hour, watching the firefighters tackle the blaze, before a police officer approached. I was glad for the change if only because I could see that Dean was shivering. John had his bathrobe on over his pyjamas, Sammy was wrapped securely in his blankie, but Dean only had thin flannel pyjamas on, and though the fire had caused some heat it was too far away from him, and as it was put out I knew the air would get colder. Why wasn't John thinking of the boys needs?

I could hear the conversation as clearly as if the police officer were in front of me, talking. Despite the chasm, they seemed close enough to touch. The dark-haired angel beside me touched my wrist again, as a reminder that I had no influence over what was transpiring.

"Sir, do you have any family or friends you could stay with?"

John held the boys tighter to him, yet still seemed oblivious to Dean's shaking body. His little lips were beginning to turn blue. I wanted to talk, to remind him of Alice, who lived the next street over. Her little boy - Alex - often had playdates with Dean. We'd even gone through our second pregnancies together, and her little girl was a few days younger than Sam. We'd joked over coffee that Sam and Laura would get married one day.

But then, I don't think John had ever met Alice. I _have_ mentioned her, and how well Dean played with Alex, and even told him about Sam's betrothal, but I guess it didn't filter through. Or he just couldn't think straight. He never mentioned Alice.

"No. There's no one."

I searched Dean's face, hoping for him to correct his father, to point out any number of the local boys and girls whose family might take pity on them. But he was shivering worse than ever, though his eyelids were drooping. He needed to warm up in bed. Sammy must have needed a diaper change by then too. But still, John didn't notice.

"Well, we will need you to stay close by, we want to question you about the fire tomorrow. There's a motel ten blocks away."

John nodded, and climbed off the car with Sammy in his arms, clipping him into his car seat with stiff arms and fumbling fingers. He made sure the straps were secure, and then headed to the driver's door.

"Daddy?" Dean's small, quavering voice broke through the darkness. "I can't get down."

He was still perched on the trunk, shivering. John sighed heavily, but came back for Dean, picking him up and putting him into the car as well, clipping his seat belt in place and heading back into the driver's side. He started the engine, that familiar rumble sounding far louder than normal, drowning out the noise of the sirens for a moment.

"Daddy?" Dean started again. "Where's Mommy?"

Oh, _Dean_. I clutched my hand to my heart, the only useless action that the angels would allow me to make. I saw a tear snake its way down John's cheek, and he bit his lip, before putting the car into drive and heading for the motel the officer had suggested. He never gave Dean an answer. But I wanted to, I wanted to tell Dean that Mommy was right here, that Mommy was watching over him with the angels now, and he had to be so brave.

Dean fell asleep during the short drive, and I knew that despite whatever else he was feeling, John would be grateful for that. I was too, Dean needed to sleep, and I could understand John's reticence to admit what had happened. How do you tell a four-year-old boy that Mommy had died? How do you explain to a small child the idea that someone has gone, been lost forever to you? If John needed time to explain that to him, then I could understand that.

They pulled into the motel lot, and John unclipped Sammy from his car seat, walking him into the building and leaving Dean dozing in the car. He can carry both boys at once, he used to show off about it on a rare day off. Dean would laugh so hard as his Daddy picked him up with one hand, still cradling Sammy in the other arm, and I would panic about their safety. But then John would remind me that he was once a marine, he could handle it. I think he was just impressed with himself that he could still effectively bench press two children, though there was probably only seventy pounds between them. It made no sense to leave Dean in the car. It wasn't safe.

But he did, he took Sammy in as he checked in, and got a crib sorted, and some milk and diapers. He had nothing in the Impala, and he hadn't been allowed back into the house to get Sam's necessities even if he'd had the presence of mind to retrieve them. Once Sammy was settled, he ran back to the car and grabbed Dean, carrying him as gently as he could despite rushing to get back in the room. That's why he should have carried them both together, then neither of them would have been left alone. John settled Dean into the bed, before making sure the door and windows were securely locked, and Sammy was okay. Then he retrieved a beer from the minibar, and began gulping it down as he sat on the edge of the bed.

I wish he had taken the boys to the hospital, just to check that they hadn't inhaled any smoke. They could have been warm, clean, dry and well cared for. They would have an abundance of diapers and formula for Sammy. Dean would have had toys to play with when he woke up. But John was stubborn with the paramedics and insisted they hadn't been near the fire, that of course they didn't inhale any smoke. I had sighed heavily, and the dark-haired angel beside me had taken the opportunity to reprimand me, reminding me that I was powerless now, and John would make his own decisions.

I watched the boys the entire night, for any small sign that they had gotten hurt in the fire. I tried to ignore how much of the minibar beer and miniatures John managed to put away before he rolled over onto the bed, cuddling up to Dean the way he did to me at night, and sank into a drunken sleep. Dean didn't seem to mind his father's weight pressing against him, he didn't even stir as John practically rolled on top of him. I wanted to check closer, to make sure Dean was okay, but it wasn't allowed, and I didn't want the angels to kick me out, to unceremoniously remove me from my babies. I couldn't say goodbye before I died, I couldn't handle that kind of goodbye as well. The most final kind, where they become a ghost of a memory.

The morning sun pierced through the flimsy curtains, and it made Sammy stir. He woke up gurgling, and I recognised the sounds as only a mother can. He was hungry, but he was still coming to. I could almost time the change from happy baby noises to saddened, hungry snuffles. John didn't react, but Dean's eyes blinked open, and he shuffled out from underneath John as best he could, before patting a chubby little hand against John's cheek.

"Daddy? Daddy, Sam's awake."

John rolled over, burying his head underneath the pillow, as Sam began to cry. Dean patted his shoulder again, and I clutched my chest even tighter. Dean wouldn't understand that John was sleeping off the alcohol. I've always protected him from John's drinking before, which never even touched the amount he put away last night. I've told him that Daddy was working late, he needed a lie in, and Dean had to play quietly. But he wasn't going to remember now. Sam's wails picked up in volume, and John clutched the pillow tighter to his head.

'Daddy? Sammy's crying."

"I know, Dean." John growled from under the pillow, and I was desperate to reach out, reassure Dean that he wasn't doing anything wrong, pick Sammy up and give him his bottle. What on earth was John thinking? Yes, the fire had been traumatic and I can't even begin to imagine what I looked like, stuck to the ceiling, but we still had two young boys, and Sammy wasn't going to know any different. All he knew was that he needed a feed, and a diaper change.

"Daddy, Sammy's hungry. And where's Mommy?"

"Be quiet, Dean," John grunted, but I could barely hear him as Sammy's cries turned desperate. Dean looked in the cot at his brother, his eyes running along the top bar that was out of his reach. As though he was going to help Sam all by himself. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I looked around to see if any of the angels had noticed. None of them seemed to react, all staring down passively at the events unfolding before us. All except the dark-haired one beside me, whose name I still hadn't learned. He was cocking his head slightly, as though he were learning something new and mildly interesting but wasn't sure what to make of the new information.

"He'll help Sammy," I blurted at the angel. His eyes flickered up to my face, and his expression was kindly.

"It appears to be that way."

I looked again, as Dean tucked a bottle and some formula into his pants waistband, and then scaled the side of the cot, dropping in with his brother, and trying to work quickly to open the bottle, put the formula in and reseal the bottle. His tiny fingers fumbled so many times, and each time he would look up, eyes full of tears, at John who remained comatose on the bed. Then he would persevere, accidentally spilling some formula on the bed and taking five attempts to screw the teat back on, before he had managed it, putting the bottle into Sammy's mouth and brushing his hand over Sammy's face. He looked again at John, and then around the room.

"Daddy? When's Mommy coming?" He asked over the slurping, sucking noises that Sammy was creating with the bottle. John finally sat up, glaring at Dean, his eyes bloodshot and stubble long.

"Dammit, Dean, quit asking about your Mom!"

Dean curled up into himself, unused to John yelling at him.

"Don't talk to him like that, he's four! He didn't see me, John, he doesn't know!" I couldn't help yelling into the chasm. The dark-haired angel beside me held me back from stepping into the chasm.

"They can't hear you either, Mary."

I curled up into his shoulder, crying in frustration. He allowed it, but the arm around my back was limp, a gesture rather than a source of comfort.

"I just want to know my babies are going to be okay," I sniffed into his shoulder. "I wish John would just think of them."

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**I hope this story is okay! I was expecting to spend less time on the first few days after Mary's death, but it seems like it's necessary to tell a little bit more.**

**I've been asked by a couple of people who read the first chapter before I posted what I think of John Winchester, because obviously this is going to touch on that topic and it seems like a very divided thing. I'm hoping it'll come out as I go along, but I think he made a lot of mistakes through his grief that resonated years down the line with Sam and Dean. The abuse they suffered was never intentional, but a side effect of a man who couldn't cope with the hand he'd been dealt. And I'm not entirely sure about physical abuse being present (though Dean said enough in Heaven to make you wonder) but they were neglected in canon, and I guess that's what I'll be touching on with this story.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I haven't forgotten this! Although everyone else probably has ...**

* * *

When I finally felt I could turn back to the chasm, it was as someone knocked on the door of the motel room. I assumed it was the police, wanting to investigate the fire. John was still on the bed, and Dean was still in Sam's crib, trying to climb back out and failing. John groaned, and pulled himself off the bed, his movements slow and body slumped as he slouched over. He didn't even pay attention to the boys.

He raised an arm to the bright sunshine as he pulled the door open, and I felt at least a little better when I saw Alice there, Alex holding her hand and Laura strapped to her chest in a carrier.

"Hello John, I'm Alice. I was friends with Mary. I only just heard about the fire, and what happened, I'm so sor-"

"What do you want?" John cut her off.

"To offer my condolences. To let you know that I'd be willing to help with the kids if you need it. Do you have any clothes for them? I've got some of Alex's things here, from when he was a baby for Sammy, and things he hasn't worn much for Dean."

"We don't need any hand-outs, thanks." John sneered, just as Dean pulled himself up in the cot.

"Alex! Daddy, can I play with Alex?"

"No, Dean." John barely turned to look at him before he was trying to shut the door in Alice's face.

"But Daddy, maybe Mommy went to talk to Alice! Alice, is Mommy there?"

John slammed the door before Alice could answer. I wished I could go talk to her, apologise for John, thank her for thinking of my boys, and reassure her that I would have done exactly the same thing.

John leaned his head against the door, and Dean carried on chattering away, still completely naive about what had happened.

"Daddy, why can't I play with Alex? Please can I play with Alex? Is Mommy playing a game? Is she playing Hide And Seek? She's real good at that game. Daddy, I think Sammy's done a poopie, he stinks. I'm bored of this crib, can you get me out? Daddy-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, DEAN!" He roared, wheeling around and glaring at our toddler. I lurched forward, wanting to protect Dean somehow, and the angel next to me grabbed me roughly.

"You cannot interfere!"

"Let me go, let me go! I want him to stop cussing, and stop yelling, and just think of the boys."

"He's grieving the loss of his wife, he can't control the way he handles that." The red-headed woman - Anna - informed me coldly. I narrowed my eyes at her.

"Last night, he was picking Dean up and joking around with him. They had plans for softball this morning-"

"And last night, he lost the love of his life."

She was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing. In that moment, I hated her. How could she just let John neglect our children? Why wouldn't one of them intervene? The angel next to her, the one that made them all laugh, he seemed to read my mind.

"We are watchers, nothing more."

Angels are beyond useless. I looked down again, and saw John lifting Dean out of the crib, and passing him the television remote to entertain himself while he pulled Sammy out of the crib, and sniffed his backside.

"Ugh," he grunted. I guess Sammy had pooped. He laid Sammy on the bed and started changing him as there was another knock at the door. Dean trotted over to it and opened it, even though I've warned him about Stranger Danger so many times. Fortunately, it was the police, and they stooped down to his level to talk to him.

"Hey there little guy, is your last name Winchester?"

"I'm Dean." He said proudly.

"Deano, who is it?" John asked.

"The p'lice. Daddy, am I in trouble?"

"No, you're not, small fry. We need to talk to your Daddy about how the fire started in your house last night, and how your mom was involved in it."

John hurried over, thrusting Sam into Dean's arms.

"Deano, watch your brother."

He hustled the officers out of the door, pulling it to behind him. I could see Dean doing his best to hold his brother just as he'd been shown to do, but a six-month-old baby is so heavy for a little boy. Dean put him onto the floor as gently as he could, and switched on the television to Sesame Street, and I heard the conversation between John and the officers, which was basically a repeat of the night before.

My focus was on my boys, however. On how Dean was trying to watch Sesame Street, but his eyes kept wandering over to Sammy, and the door that separated him from John.

"Mommy?" He called softly. "Mommy?"

"I'm here baby, I'm here," I reached a hand out, knowing I couldn't touch him but tracing those chubby little cheeks in the air anyway. I know he couldn't hear me either, but I hoped that he felt me, on some level. That he knew I would never stop loving him. His stomach growled, and he sighed, tucking his knees up to his chest and resting his chin there. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and he wasn't quite sure how it all got there. He was still sitting like that when John came back into the room, and flopped down on the bed. Dean's eyes followed him, and I could almost sense that he wanted to ask after me. But being yelled at twice for asking about me must have put him off, because he said nothing. Eventually John began snoring, and Dean flopped out, his legs splayed in front of him, his arms listless by his sides.

"I'm bored."

I don't think he expected anyone to be listening. After all, to my four-year-old, Daddy was asleep, Mommy was hiding and Sammy was too young to be any fun. His stomach gurgled again.

"And I'm hungry." He noted. There was movement on the bed, and John stuck a twenty out into the void.

"Go buy some breakfast."

If my heart was still beating, it would have stopped at that moment. John wasn't seriously encouraging a pre-schooler to go to the store and buy breakfast, was he? Dean seemed to be feeling the same way, eyeing the money carefully, and then looking back at Sesame Street. John made an exasperated noise, and got up.

"Fine. _Fine_. We'll get in the car and go find some breakfast."

Dean immediately cheered up, and tried to pick Sammy up from where he was kicking around on the floor, gurgling to himself. At least my baby was happy, ignorant of the fact his family had been changed forever. He let Dean pick him up readily enough, as John grabbed the few baby supplies and shoved them in a bag, and led the boys out to the car. Sam struggled against Dean halfway across the lot and I watched as Dean tried his best to keep hold of him, scared of hurting him, remembering all my talks about how fragile the new baby was going to be.

I was grateful to Dean, for keeping such a close eye on his brother, but I was still confused. Who was going to look out for Dean in the same way? The angels would be no use, they'd repeat their mantra that it's their duty to watch and not interfere. Great.

John strapped them both in the car, and found some pie in the front from a recent family picnic. He passed it to Dean to eat, and cranked up the radio. And that was the moment I realised that they were never going to go back home.


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, I got used to just watching, and not being able to touch my family, to have them hear me one more time. And they got used to life without me too. John found a balance between heavy drinking and childcare, although it wasn't a great balance and heavily relied on our four-year-old. Dean slowly stopped asking about where I was, what could have happened. Maybe on some level he knew that Mommy had died in the house fire. He also knew that Sam needed a lot of help, and did his best by his little brother.

Maybe Sam knew on some level that Dean was doing all the real work, learning how to fix diapers and giving him most of his bottles, because over the next few months, Sam started crawling, heading straight to his big brother over questionably sanitary motel floors. He took his first steps with Dean, his first word was his brother's name, after Dean had spent a good few hours saying it over and over, Sam scrutinising the way he formed the words. Despite the fact that Dean turned five, and Sam turned one, and they hadn't really celebrated their birthdays or christmases that year, John left them alone for hours at a time. It had to be illegal, but when I mentioned it to the angels, they looked at me blankly. I suppose they don't look at human children in the same way that I do. Whenever he left, we didn't follow. The angels were more interested in my boys, and I couldn't get enough of the two of them.

Dean amazed me in those few months. He had to be missing me. Sometimes in the night, he called out for me, especially after a nightmare. He would sit up in bed, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles and look around the room blearily. When reality dawned, his lip would tremble, but then he would rally around and curl back up in bed. And in the day, he focused on Sam, on helping him slowly try solid foods with the few things John bothered to get for them. When John brought back take out, Dean would pass the salad out of his burger to a Sam who received it gratefully, sucking on a slice of tomato, chewing on a piece of lettuce as he looked on his big brother in awe.

When Sam got big enough, around the time of the anniversary of my death, they began to play together, trying to keep away the boredom that came with staying in motels while John went off on his own business. Dean loved playing hide and seek, Sam seemed to prefer tag, although he could never catch up to Dean. All the games would end with them either falling into a giggling heap together, or Dean getting annoyed and putting the television on, only for Sam to curl up into his side on the bed a few moments later.

I watched as Dean's hair grew, until it irritated him too much and he took himself into the bathroom, Sam toddling behind, and he worked out how to use John's razor to cut his hair short. It was uneven, and patchy, but he seemed happy that it was gone. And then he turned to Sam, razor in hand, slowly advancing towards his baby brother.

"No, Dean," Sam shook his head, his own wispy baby hair flying out. "No cut."

"Hold still, Sammy. It doesn't hurt."

"No. Nonononono," Sam's lip trembled, and he backed into the bathtub. "Pease, Dean?"

"It won't hurt, I promise," Dean insisted. He carried on walking towards Sam, the razor already buzzing, and John burst into the bathroom just in time. Sam's eyes were huge with tears threatening to fall, his bottom lip jutting out and trembling. Dean caught his expression, and dropped the razor, which shaved off part of the motel's bathmat. John was raging at him, yelling about his razor and looking after Sammy and responsibility - of all things - but my sons were only paying attention to each other. I could almost hear the way they were thinking. Sammy knew Dean more than anything else, Dean was already his constant, and he hadn't liked what Dean was suggesting. And my poor sweet Dean had taken on so much already and Sammy was the chance he had to still be a kid, to still play. He didn't want to lose that. Sam's face was hard to deal with too, I would have refused to cut his hair forever with that expression.

It soon dropped though, with John's continuing rant at Dean. Sam's little face screwed up, and he looked up at John.

"No! No shout! No bad Dean!"

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean muttered quietly, and turned off the razor, leaving it on the floor and putting an arm around Sam. "No cut."

"Fankoo Dean. No cut." Sam was still glaring at John, his face both imperious and adorable.

"You're both grounded," John spat, scooping up the razor and heading out of the bathroom. "No playing in motel bathrooms. Now come out, the pizza's getting cold."

They looked at each other, wary of John, before Dean led them both back through the motel room, over to the rickety plastic table and stools. Dean slipped into a seat and grabbed a slice, blowing across the surface with gusto.

"It's hot hot hot, Sammy!" He crowed. Sam's head barely grazed the table as he approached, putting his pudgy fingers on the edge of the table and peering over.

"No pizza. No. Is yuck."

"Sammy, eat the damn pizza," John grouched.

"Dean less?" Sam pushed.

"No lettuce on pizza, Sammy." Dean announced smugly, translating Sam's attempt at language before John could get it wrong. "On my burger. You get the lettuce on my burger."

"Dean burger. Dean less. Sammy less."

"Sammy, eat the pizza. I'm not getting burgers. Here." He scooped a small slice out of the box and put it in front of Sam, who wrinkled his nose.

"No. Is yuck."

John stooped down and glared at him, and Sammy glared back defiantly. I was too wrapped up into what was occurring before me to even think to yell out into the abyss. But if I was thinking about it, if I were able to talk to them, I would remind John that a 'no phase' is normal when they're learning to talk, that Sam had realised the words had power. That he was small, and much younger than even Dean, and there was no consistency in his routine and all he had was this one word. John had to rise above it.

But there was no need. Sam's small face crumbled, and he reached for the slice. John passed it to him, and he bit into it grumpily, chewing with his mouth open and watching John warily. Again, I knew what was passing through his little mind. Where Dean was his constant, John was still an unknown quantity. John didn't parent consistently, he played favourites, and he had long absences despite Sam's young age. As far as our youngest was concerned, he was the person who came home every now and then to yell at his wonderful big brother, he was also their chauffeur, and their food provider. Sam barely had cupboard love for John.

When John went to leave for the bathroom, and Dean helped himself to another slice, pulling the stringing cheese with his teeth and getting it wrapped around his little arms, Sam leaned closer to him conspiratorially.

"Is yuck."

"I like it."

"Daddy is yuck."

Dean eyed the bathroom door warily, before looking at his little brother. I knew he could remember a different father, and he didn't want to betray the daddy who played softball with him and called him slugger.

"It'll be okay, Sammy. He's not so bad."

Sam wrinkled his nose, and Dean smiled.

"We'll play something after dinner, okay?"

"Tag!" Sam cheered. Dean nodded.

"Okay, we'll play tag. Eat your pizza."

Dean took a huge bite of his slice, and Sam copied him happily.


	5. Chapter 5

The angels would come and go. Soon after the moment where Dean almost cut Sam's hair, the redheaded angel disappeared, and the angels seemed to act as though she had never been there before. Occasionally, I was left on my own, just like my sons, but more often than not, I was left with the scruffy haired angel, the one who was kind to me on the day of my death.

Castiel.

He reluctantly told me his name one day when the boys had worn themselves out and crashed into an afternoon nap, John absent once again. He told me about the garrison I had found myself with, about how there were a few garrisons charged with watching the children Azazel had targeted. I was horrified to learn that Sammy wasn't the only one, to learn what it was he was doing to my baby boy when I walked in that day. He was cautious with his stories, unwilling to bond, and he kept a close eye on both my boys even as we talked. Although the garrison was assigned to Sam, I had the feeling that Dean had piqued his interest as well. Maybe because of his role in Sam's life, especially now, but maybe also because Dean was a kind kid, for the most part. I would sometimes look up when Dean had handed Sam some food, or helped him get dressed, and see Castiel smiling.

I had asked him why he was the constant, why the other angels would come and go, and he told me that he was now in charge of the garrison, that he had to assign tasks until he received his own commands. That was all he was allowed to tell me about the workings of Heaven. But I didn't mind, I felt like he and I had an understanding. He said nothing when the other angels were gone, when it was the two of us sitting by the abyss, and I would sing Hey Jude at Dean as though he could hear me, the nights he couldn't sleep properly. He even began to learn the words, to sing along with me. And when the other angels were there, he was more uptight, but I didn't take it personally. It was, perhaps, his way of helping a grieving mother, but he worried about how the other angels would see it.

The boys continued to play together, to build their own world. Even when John was there, Sam would be Dean's almost constant shadow. Dean was the one to teach Sam everything, how to change his clothes, how to potty train, what was dangerous and what wasn't. Sammy was a bright kid, I could see that, he learned things quickly, and had a streak of independence that Dean didn't quite have. He taught himself how to use the television remote, so on those days when Dean didn't want to play with him, he would snatch the remote, and put the television on, scanning through until he got to a documentary. He seemed fascinated with the world outside of motel doors, but he never got a chance to watch an entire episode before Dean was shoving him over, taking the remote and putting on cartoons. I could tell in those moments that Sam wanted to argue back, to fight his big brother and stand his ground - despite still being so small and unable to form large sentences - but he never did. I suppose it was because he didn't want Dean mad at him, didn't want to be alone.

They saw John most when they travelled from town to town, and often that was the only time I would see him too. They would sit in the car for hours at a time, eating junk food and blaring the music John listened to as a teenager, Sam staring out of the window thoughtfully.

"Daddy," he said on one journey, during a lull between tapes. "Why is the sky blue?"

John ignored him, and Dean sniggered.

"Daddy, why do we go to motels?" Sam persisted. I saw a twitch in John's eye.

"I'm concentrating on the road, Sammy."

"Why?"

"So we don't crash."

"Why?"

Dean sniggered again, and John shoved his leg.

"Why do you have to ask so many questions? Be a good soldier Sammy."

Sam frowned, and stared out of the window again. Dean turned in his seat, and smirked at Sam.

"Don't they tell you those things on those boring shows you put on?"

"No."

Dean turned around again.

"Daddy, do we have any candy?" He popped open the glove box as he asked.

"No. Dean, get out of there!"

"What? Why? I'm bored. Can we listen to Led Zeppelin?" Dean reached forward, rifling through the crap John kept in there.

"Dean," John's tone was warning. A few seconds later, I saw why. Dean had withdrawn a gun from under a map, and was staring at it with wide eyes. Sam was oblivious in the back seat. John kept hold of the steering wheel with one hand, and with the other he snatched back the gun, shoved it in the glove box and slammed it closed. "When we stop, we're talking."

"Dad why do you have a-"

"Shut up, Dean."

John's tone and face made it clear that he wasn't going to talk any further, that he was angry with Dean. But I was scared, what was John doing with a gun? Why did it have to be there in the car where either boy could have grabbed it? He didn't insist on seat belts, Sam could easily have slipped over the front bench and grabbed it himself.

They went back to being silent, listening along to the tapes, until John found a diner. He strapped Sam into the baby chair, plied him with crayons and a colour-in menu, and turned to Dean, dropping his voice so our two-year-old wouldn't hear.

"Sometimes, Deano, Daddies have to have things like guns."

"Why?"

The tick was back under John's eye. Sam's whys were bad enough, without Dean throwing them in.

"Soldiers don't ask questions, Dean. They do what they're told. And they don't touch Daddy's things without permission. Understood?"

Dean nodded at him solemnly, and turned to his own menu, grabbing a green crayon from Sam's tray.

"Hey! They're mine!" Sam clutched at the crayon which was already out of reach. "Mine, Dean!"

"Share, Sammy," Dean retorted, and covered his menu with an arm, colouring in a section.

"But it's _mine_!"

"No it's not!"

"Mine!"

"Boys!" John barked, and rubbed his forehead. "Shut up. Both of you. Dean, don't take; Sam, you have to share."

They glowered at each other, even as a waitress came and took their order.

I did feel for John in these moments, when the boys were at loggerheads and acting like all siblings everywhere. Being a single parent to two young boys is more difficult than most people would believe. But it still didn't excuse his short temper, his absences, and the risk he was running keeping a gun in the car.

The waitress brought their food over, and cooed over Sam for a moment before turning to John.

"He's precious. And this one's a big boy, isn't he? Are you at school already?" She smiled down at Dean, but John refused to respond, passing Sam a fork and diving into his own food. Dean frowned at the waitress, and started chewing on a fry. After a few moments of hostile silence, she moved away.

* * *

That night, when Sam had gone to sleep, in the bed that he would be sharing with Dean, John took our eldest aside. I was hoping that he would talk to Dean about starting school, guilted into it by the well-meaning waitress, but I was overestimating John, it seemed.

"Dean, do you know why Daddy has that gun?"

I looked at Castiel, who looked back at me impassively. He wasn't as concerned as I was, but he seemed to know instinctively that the topic would upset me.

"No."

"Well …" John seemed to root around for how to express what he wanted to say. "There are bad things out there, Dean. Scary things. And sometimes, the best way to deal with those bad, scary things is to fight back."

Dean blinked, looking apprehensive about what John was saying. I was furious. I had spent so much time and effort trying to protect my family from having to fight, and John's trying to justify it to our six year old?

"Bad scary things?" Dean repeated, and John nodded.

"Like whatever it was that made that fire and killed Mommy."

Dean's eyes grew wide. It was the first time in the eighteen months since my death that John had even acknowledged me.

"Mommy?" He whispered, and John took that as a sign to keep going.

"But it's okay, Dean. I'm learning how to fight back. We'll find whoever, or whatever did this to her. We'll get revenge. But do me a favour kid? Don't tell Sammy. It's our little secret, okay buddy? I need you to be my big boy, my soldier, while I try and find this thing."

He patted Dean's head, and walked over to the window, pulling a tub of salt out of his pocket and beginning to line the window sill with the crystals. Dean watched him, scrutinising his movements, and I wanted to be sick. Dean wasn't that much older than Sam, why did he have to bear this burden too? Why was he dragging my sons back into the world of hunting after all my efforts? I wanted to scream at him, show him what it really took to hunt and what it cost and what he was going to do to my sons. Castiel must have sensed my anger, my frustration, because he placed a hand on my shoulder. The angel equivalent of a hug.

"You can't undo their fate, Mary."

"I worked so hard," I could feel tears tracking down my cheeks, the anger spilling out in the only way it could in this barren world.

"And your work won't go without notice. Dean seems to have been heavily influenced by you. He might be the only one capable of saving his brother."

I leaned against him, though I knew he wouldn't be comfortable with the contact.

"I just wanted my babies to have a chance."


End file.
